


Let's Fly

by Mrs_SimonTam_PHD



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: AU Fic, Angel!Lock, Angels exist, Flying, M/M, Sherlock's a sweet person really, Surgery, Wing!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:43:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD/pseuds/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Humans are just fallen angels. Some people still have their wings, their falls from grace minor. Others, their wings have been stripped from them completely, grounding them forever for whatever crime they've committed. </p><p>John Watson still has his wings</p><p>Sherlock Holmes does not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Fly

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So, in this, I feel Sherlock's WAY too OOC for this, but I also think it works. 
> 
> Beta'd by my friends who are not on AO3 or dA. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“SHERLOCK!”

The cry erupted as it normally did at 221B Baker St from the mouth of John Watson. His brilliant white wings took up half the living room, having exploded in anger.

“Hmmm?” the consulting detective hummed, looking at his flatmate, smiling at the wingspan. “Oh. You’re complaining about a body part that doesn’t belong, is that correct?”

“Toes in the bread bin!”

“Then, please, don’t look in the gelato.”

“DID YOU TAMPER WITH THE GELATO?!”

The wings unfurled even more, and Sherlock had the grace to look guilty.

“Yes. . . It was to encourage cold resistant bacteria. . .”

John sighed. “You’re picking up more, Sherlock.”

“Yes, dear,” Sherlock said, smiling.

Slowly, the wings folded back up and tucked neatly between his shoulder blades.

Sherlock was envious of John’s wings, he couldn’t help it. If he helped enough people, then the High Council of Fallen Angels could give him his wings back, since his crime was minor, but not minor enough to let him keep his wings.

Lestrade burst through the door, his salt and pepper hair tousled, and his wings looking disheveled. “Case.”

“Of what sort?”

“Murder.”

“Come on, Lestrade, give me more than that,” Sherlock spat.

“Sherlock!” The cry came in a warning from the kitchen.

“Yes, John.” He turned back to the detective inspector. “My apologies.”

“Apology accepted. Anyways, it’s a murder, can’t ID cause of death. Not that the Council would mind if we turned a blind eye to it.”

“Lowest of the low?”

Lestrade nodded. “Looks like he tried to get his wings back illegally. He wasn’t meant to have them back.”

Lestrade and Sherlock accepted the cups of tea from John, and John went to work on the wings.

“That would be highly dangerous,” John said as he straightened the wings of the older angel. “For one, wings can only be reestablished by an Archangel, and Gabriel is out on holiday.”

“What about Michael?”

John thought. He conversed regularly with the Council, mainly to talk about his flatmate. “Michael was supposed to come by London around 4:30 or so, there’s going to be a trial.”

“For what?” Sherlock asked eagerly.

John shrugged. “Couldn’t reveal too many details, it’s classified. Not even Mycroft knows.”

Sherlock scowled at the mention of his brother.

“Mate, you got a broken wing,” John said, frowning at Lestrade.

“Got shoved into a building while doing a foot chase,” Lestrade mumbled sourly.

“Well, sit down, right there, and let me get my med bag.”

John left, and Lestrade and Sherlock looked at each other. Lestrade’s non broken wing had folded back up between his shoulder blades, while the broken one hung limply where it was.

John came back with his wing med bag- Sherlock could tell by the set of wings John had embroidered onto it. He sat down next to the DI and began the painful process of resetting his wing.

“Why were your wings out during a chase?” John chastised a few minutes into the process.

“Got angry at Anderson. Fool can’t even do things properly, and he was an idiot right before the chase. He had no time to correct his composure. Oh, by the way, your wife is wondering where you are,” Sherlock said, holding up Lestrade’s nicked phone.

“You are a complete and utter tosser,” Lestrade sighed. “But you’re right. Anderson fucked up. He compromised the integrity of a crime scene.” He winced as the wing bone snapped into place finally.

They all did, actually.

“Well, try to lay off of flying for a while,” John said, binding the wing properly. “At least three weeks.”

“Thanks, doctor,” Lestrade said, standing and flexing the broken wing so it would tuck behind his shoulders.

“The usual painkillers should be fine for you to use, it’s a mild break,” the ex soldier continued.

Sherlock threw his phone back and Lestrade left.

“Now, when is Michael coming to London?”

“Around 4:30, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was bouncing in his seat. “I reached the limit,” he whispered quietly.

“You did?” John asked happily, going over and sitting next to Sherlock.

“Yes! And exceeded it! I didn’t keep too careful count originally, but thanks to my eidetic memory, I was able to correctly calculate!”

The two hugged, and John kissed Sherlock passionately, with the consulting detective returning it with vigor.

“Ahem.”

The two looked to see Archangel Michael standing in their flat, eyeing them with amusement. Faces flushing, they disengaged from their embrace.

“Good afternoon, Michael,” John said, his face still a bright red. “I thought you weren’t arriving for another two hours or so.”

“And so I was. However, I was able to get away early, and decided to drop in.”

Sherlock had gone quite pale.

“Relax, Sherlock,” Michael said, his dark brown eyes glittering in glee. “I’m here to inform you that the Council has been looking over your file.”

“I’m sure the Council has. They have you run ragged, you know. You and Gabriel.”

The Archangel smiled. “And I get to go on holiday once he returns.”

“Splendid.”

“Indeed.”

“Tea?”

Michael chuckled. “Yes, Doctor Watson. Tea.”

John scampered off into the kitchen to make tea.

Sherlock looked at the Archangel. “And?”

“You have exceeded all the expectations that we originally laid down for you in order to get your wings back,” he said, sitting down in John’s armchair. “Including that ‘pesky, emotional business’ of falling in love.”

Sherlock grimaced as the Archangel repeated what his words were, not that long ago. “You know for me it was very difficult to feel emotions, even understand them.”

“Do you now?”

“I see their purpose, their value now. It’s hard for me to sometimes express the more. . . base emotions.”

“Yet, you love John and hate Moriarty.”

“Moriarty is of no concern.”

“Really? It was because of him you fell.”

“He fell right down with me.”

“Ahh. . . Touche, young Holmes.” Michael chuckled. “Are you saying you have trouble expressing your love for Watson?”

Sherlock rocked his hand back and forth. “It really depends. Sometimes, I have no clue how to react when he’s been affectionate to me. And sometimes. . . It just feels natural. It’s infuriating.”

Michael nodded sympathetically. “That’s only natural, Sherlock. He’s been a great asset to you, and I am very happy that you love him.”

The consulting detective looked towards the kitchen. The doctor’s wings had unfurled some, showing his contentment, giving him a beautiful look.

The Archangel followed his look. “You miss your wings.”

“I would be a fool not to,” he said quietly. “I still dream about when they were removed. John holds me on those nights, wrapping his own wings around me. I can pretend, then, that they’re back.”

“Well, hope that he has plenty of your painkillers on hand.”

Sherlock looked at Michael in disbelief. “You mean. . .”

“The Council has decreed that you deserve them back,” the latter replied. He drew out a single, black feather from the inside pocket of his suit, and handed it to Sherlock.

He took it reverently, admiring what was once his. And what will be his again.

John reappeared with Michael’s tea, and he handed it to him. He caught a glimpse of the black feather in Sherlock’s hands.

“You’re getting them back?” he asked happily.

Sherlock merely looked at John, elation in his green-silver eyes.

“When?” John asked.

“Tomorrow,” Michael said.

 

 

_The next day_

Sherlock woke up in St. Barts, opening his eyes to see John’s face.

John had a look of utter happiness and adoration, his white wings unfurled completely.

“Hey there, sleepy,” he teased, sitting down, minding his wings. “It was a success. You’ll have to wait a couple days before they can unfurl completely.” He took his lover’s hand into his and kissed it. “You did it, Sher.”

Sherlock smiled. “They’re back?”

“They’re back, Sher. And they look marvelous.”

“You’ve seen them?”

John ducked his head guiltily. “I may or may not have been present at the surgery.”

“You performed it.”

John bit his lip and nodded.

Sherlock leaned up a little, feeling the both familiar and unfamiliar pain between his shoulder blades, feeling his feathers rustle. He took his partner’s face in his hands and gently kissed him.

“There’s no one else I would’ve wanted to do it,” he whispered softly. Complete adoration shone through his voice.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” Michael said from the doorway.

“You seem to like to come at the most inconvenient moments,” Sherlock growled, settling back down in his bed, John blushing.

“It just happens that way for you two,” the Archangel agreed, smiling indulgently. “Dr. Watson did a fantastic job. You should be proud of yourself, Doctor.”

John nodded, smiling.

“Even if you twisted my arm so you could perform it.”

Sherlock, who was drinking some water, spat it out, before looking at John, who was now wearing a sheepish grin.

“JOHN!”

“Hey, I couldn’t help it!”

“Quite right. The Council knew it was going to happen, I just let him twist my arm.” The Archangel looked at the former soldier. “I’ll admit, it is rather. . . how shall I phrase this?. . . _arousing_ when he goes into soldier mode.”

John blushed a bright vermillion, before excusing himself, mumbling a lame excuse on how he needed to visit the loo.

Which left the consulting detective with the Archangel.

“You didn’t need to embarrass him like that,” Sherlock said, but he was smiling.

“I figured it would make him leave the room,” Michael shrugged, also smiling. “I wasn’t lying, either.”

“Oh, believe me, I know you weren’t,” he grinned. “He doesn’t like anyone commenting on it.”

“Reminds him of his nickname?” Michael asked.

“What, John ‘Three Continents’ Watson? Yes, yes it does,” Sherlock grinned even more. “Is that even true?”

“Unfortunately for him, yes.”

Sherlock laughed, his rich baritone echoing throughout the hospital. “Oh, but I’m sure it was well worth it.”

John came back in to see a chortling Archangel and a hysterical lover.

“I do not want to know,” he murmured before lifting Sherlock up and examining his beautiful pitch black wings.

“I’m sure you don’t,” the latter laughed, grinning, “Three Continents.”

John went back to blushing vermillion. “Hush,” he whispered in his ear. “Or you won’t get anything tonight.”

“Is that so, _Captain?_ ”

John groaned, knowing the way Sherlock called him “Captain” spoke to an entirely different part of the anatomy.

“Not in front of Michael!” he hissed.

Michael watched the scene in amusement, and Mycroft came in, his burnt orange wings unfurled.

“Glad to see your wings are restored, little brother,” the man who was the British Government commented.

“Stop showing off, he can’t use his for another few days,” John reprimanded the elder Holmes brother.

Rebuffed, Mycroft tucked his wings back in. “My apologies.”

Sherlock nodded, accepting the apology, and John placed a tender kiss to his temple.

All was as it should be.

 

_Four nights later_

They were standing on the roof of 221B Baker St, and John’s beautiful white wings were completely unfurled. His blue eyes were bright.

“Come on, Sher,” he coaxed.

Sherlock was uncertain. Would he remember how?

Slowly, he unfurled his own raven black wings, and John came over to inspect them once they reached full wingspan.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“Are they?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. Because they’re you,” John reassured him, making sure that they were safe and snug in their sheaths.

John went around back front and the sight of Sherlock, with his navy blue scarf, quicksilver eyes, and gorgeous black wings, took his breath away.

“Oh, Sher,” he whispered.

Sherlock stared at John, at his doctor, with his beautiful snow white wings, ocean blue eyes, and sandy blonde hair starting to streak with grey. He caught himself in the reflection of John’s dilated pupil, and gasped.

“Is this what you see when you look at me?” he whispered, drawing himself closer.

“With or without wings. You’re an amazing fallen, don’t forget that,” his lover replied.

And with that, John drew Sherlock to the edge of the roof.

“I won’t let you fall again.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Let’s fly.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are shiny!!


End file.
